Of Flowers and Tears
by Decativate Me
Summary: A sad story (actually, I'm just feeling acutely lazy to writing a summary). Enjoy!


_**Of Flowers and Tears**_

_This fan fiction is a one shot (possibly two shot), one time (possibly two time) only deal based in the world of Guild Wars. The world, locations, and everything but the characters are not mine, and belong to and are property of ArenaNet. Do not steal what is theirs, and do not steal my own characters. Sorry it's pretty short and shoddy.  
_

Caiomhe held back her tears adamantly. '_I will not cry until I reach Lion's Arch_,' she repeated in her head over and over like a mantra, '_I will not cry until I reach Lion's Arch.'_

She had thought that week would have been a typical one in Orr—dreary, depressing, surrounded by the dead under Zhaitan's control screaming of the dragon's power, but still entirely fascinating and beautiful in it's own way. The history that had been lost there was great, but she was now a part of the many that were attempting to recover it.

She was heading back now a few days earlier then she should have been, and earlier then she was expected by her other friends, and it was for less then good reasons. Yesterday, she had met a rotting, lumbering corpse from her past.

The young sylvari necromancer could have recognized the tiny asura warrior anywhere in any state. Clean, dirty, injured, healthy, sick, half-insane and partially burned because one of his own contraptions backfired upon him… Caiomhe knew what he looked like. It helped that Maat had been wearing distinctive armor that had been painted a bright gold before he had gone missing in Orr a few months back when he and a group of Vigil soldiers and a handful of Priory explorers had went to handle something in the Cathedral of Eternal Radiance and never came back.

The others had always believed that Maat and the others were dead, and said that all she could hope for was that their deaths had been quick and that Zhaitan had not taken control of their corpses for it's own. Caiomhe had hoped against all of their sour thoughts that they were wrong, for the snowy white sylvari had a feeling at her very core that Maat, at least, was still out there alive, somewhere.

Yesterday, she had been proven entirely right. Unfortunately for her, it had been the way you never wanted to see a long-time ally that one had known for a while return.

She had found several scrolls not far from the old temple of the human god Grenth, still in good condition and protected entirely from the ravages of time in a glass case that had been sealed inside a hidden vault. Caiomhe knew better not to tamper with the case—the scrolls, as soon as they were exposed to the air, could crumble to dust, and if their knowledge was unique, it was on her that it had been lost for good. She would have to wait until she returned to Lornar's Pass and the Durmand Priory headquarters there to see what was inside.

After wrapping up the case securely and then carefully placing it in her pack, Caiomhe had begun the journey back across Orr. It was not a long trip, if one knew how to avoid the Risen and knew the paths.

It had come as a surprise when she had heard a choked, ruined voice cry, "Everybody! Come!" signaling a less than subtle attack by one of the undead monsters.

Caiomhe had quickly pulled off her pack with the scrolls and put it down delicately, not wishing to destroy the glass case with the scrolls. She drew the daggers hanging at her sides, and turned around, quickly calling on her magic to bring down the foe.

It had happened so fast that she hadn't even realized who the Risen had formerly been before she brought her daggers down and stuck them straight into the undead asura's skull.

Even with his armor tarnished and chipped by water and rocks, his eye sockets emptied, his skin torn and flesh rotting, Caiomhe would recognize Maat anywhere.

She bit back the tears again, nearly collapsing from the effort. The young sylvari felt like her heart, or whatever served as it, had been cut out, and then thrown on the ground and smashed. She had thought of her friends dying before, but them dying and becoming a minion of the dragons? It had been something she had never comprehended, for she had imagined her friends all dying old and surrounded by a thousand of their small, squealing miniature versions of themselves.

Lion's Arch glimmered like a beacon ahead as the night set in, and Caiomhe was glad to be back. Her relief to be somewhere she was not immediately going to die was short-lived, however, as her grief equaled and then overtook it by a great measure. Continuing her walk, Caiomhe held back as she walked to where she had told her other friends to meet her when she came back—the Crow's Nest Tavern.

She knew that they would common there in the evenings up to a few nights before she arrived, waiting for her just in case she did end up coming back early. They didn't drink much, and Caiomhe hoped that night had not been an exception to that rule.

She stumbled through the front of the tavern practically shaking, and she knew from the curious glances from some people that she looked dirty and overly distressed. Caiomhe did her best to ignore their stares, heading up the upper level, and she spotted one of her friends there.

Verus Blazegun was a massive charr, but despite his size, he was not the most intimidating of his kind. He hardly possessed the massive horns that dominated the heads of the other male charr, and his face was as warm as a massive, humanoid, aggressive looking feline could appear (exception to when he smiled—Caiomhe could not figure out if he was actually happy or angry when he did).

He was waiting there, watching the floor, and his four fuzzy ears that stuck off his head visibly drooped as he saw her. "What's wrong, whiteflower?"

Caiomhe couldn't stop the tears. They felt hot and terrible as they fell down her face, and she practically ran to the charr and buried her head the orange fur upon one of his large arms.

Verus didn't say anything, just let her cry, only taking the time to pick up the tiny sylvari with one of his large clawed hands like she was nothing but a small, lightweight twig, and placed her on one of his shoulders. Then as Caiomhe switched to crying into his large, fluffy neck, he left the tavern to take her to the rest of her friends whom would just be happy to see that she herself was back, and alive.


End file.
